You lick the ic­ing off the cup­cake.

That’s what cup­cakes are good for: they are ic­ing de­liv­ery ve­hi­cles.

Yet there’s also that cake part. You never know what to do with the cake part.

It re­minds you of what once was; of the ic­ing; of the sweet­ness, long since de­voured.

You want to eat it again–the same ic­ing! It’s spe­cial! Just one more lick; just one more taste.

You want to scoop up some onto your fin­ger; you want to put it into your mouth; you want to let the fla­vor swirl around…

You wish you took your time more than you did; you wish you sa­vored it more. If you but had an­other chance, you’d do it right this time!

And the cake.

You are un­sure whether to keep the cake for the mem­ory, or to toss it, to rid your­self of this loss.

Per­haps you shall bury it.

In­stead, you eat it.

Per­haps, you thought, there are traces of more ic­ing! Per­haps, you thought, these traces would not be spoiled by the cake! That ic­ing, so sweet, so per­fect…

But in the end, you swal­lowed only the bread, the cake, and no more ic­ing.

It’s not the same.

Maybe you’ll buy a new cup­cake…

But it’ll still not be the same.

What’s gone is gone.